Invisible Vestige
by aelwyn
Summary: Lena Smithe is a perfectly normal girl in a perfectly odd family. Until the accident. And the accident after that. R/R.


Invisible Vestige  
By Ancient Echoes

Well, here we go! I've begun a lil HP fic... hopefully it will go somewhere. I might continue... I might not. I've got some really great plot twists coming up, so I want reviews so I'll feel it's worth it to continue! Also, when you review, please tell me about my mistakes! I'm trying to learn from this. Tell if I need more details (I didn't describe Mr. Smithe... is that bad? I think I'm bringing that in later though. He's important and I don't want readers knowing him too well until the plot needs him), or whatever. 

Yay! I hope you like!

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The Smithes believed in pain. Without pain, you could become a worthless blob, sitting on the kitchen linoleum, eating biscuits by the dozen. Biscuits were an absolute no-no, as they contained sugar, and fat, and lots of other things to make you physically weak. You could become a plump little wimp in no time. Pain: the cure for all.   
  
"No pain, no gain!" Mrs. Smithe would often trill. She was a strong, muscular woman, full of rippling, bulging muscles. The public opinion was that she looked like a man (some glassy-eyed neighbourhood children went so far as to marvel that she WAS a man), but she would often drown out the many catcalls she received with exercise films she picked up at the Foodstuffs and More store ("and a One, and a Two, and a Three... Up Down Up! Keep going girls, work those thighs!"), or the droning sound of one of the many exercise machines on the ground floor. Her masculinity was of no bother to her.  
  
Their only son, Will, was a boxer. Every night he would leave their little white house, surrounded by that perfect little white picket fence, to attend tournaments and practices. He would come home smirking, sporting a black eye and perhaps a fist-shaped bruise on his upper back.  
  
"Today I beat that Toady chap... what's his name... aw, who cares, oh and look at this welt I got! I'm not quite sure how it got there, handsome, eh?"   
  
Lena Smithe was the only one who was different. Unlike the Smithes, she had light coloured hair (blonde), and dark coloured eyes (brown). She would sit in her room at night, pondering, wishing on stars, and other namby-pamby wishy-washy stuff like that. Mr. and Mrs. Smithe, both blue-eyed brunets, blamed it on that fact that she was not a real Smithe.   
  
"You are adopted," Mr. Smithe informed her one day, attempting to lookunderstanding but failing. His look of forced compassion faded into a look of resentment. "We don't know who your father is. And your mother? Some old bag off the street. Name of Luisa Bailey. Dropped you off somewhere when you were a baby, then died in a street corner. You ended up in an orphanage, and here we are, your adoptive parents."  
  
So she was a Bailey after all. Lena rather liked the name; it made her think of life outside the Smithe house, where work and no play ruled. She herself was in charge of the front garden. Lena was not allowed to wear gloves to protect her hands from the prickly needles of the weeds and roses. Pain was, supposedly, her best friend (according to the rest of the Smithes).  
  
It all began one bright, cheerful morning. Lena rose and (rather gruffly) greeted her family, then began making toast for herself. The toast pan was completely heated when she turned away, reaching for a spatula. Her arm brushed the pan and it flipped in mid-air, hitting her arm before falling to the floor. The resounding crash awoke Mrs. Smithe, who had fallen asleep in the living room next door. She jogged into the kitchen.  
  
"What have you done?" she gasped, seeing the charred toast crumbs scattered about, the upside down pan on the floor melting the linoleum, and Lena, eyes closed in pain, grasping her right arm.  
  
"I don't know," Lena whimpered.  
  
"Well, don't just stand there!" Mrs. Smithe scolded in her deep voice, as though Lela had done nothing but broken a fingernail, "Pick up that pan before it melts my floor in two!" She spun on her heel and marched away, perhaps to start up another exercise film.  
  
Gingerly, Lena pulled her hand away from the arm. An ugly red mark, feeling hot enough to smoulder, greeted her. She turned her eyes away from the sight, and picked the pan by the handle. Its heat had marred the floor slightly, however the floor had no nerves, as Lena did. She threw the pan in the sink, ran some cold water upon it, and ran down the hall and upstairs to her bedroom. Sure enough, too-cheery, almost mechanical voices floated up to her, calling out something about butt muscles ("... work those glutei! Up and Down and Up and Down and..."). Mrs. Smithe was at it again. Those dratted films!  
  
Slamming the door behind her (inevitably blocking out Butt Exercise #4), she turned and flopped down on her bed. As she gazed at her burn mark, tears filling her eyes, Lena made up her mind.   
  
"The Smithe pain rule is all right," she mumbled to herself, "If I'd allowed myself to get hurt more often, I'd be more used to this. This wouldn't hurt at all."  
  
A sudden, hardened look filled her face. "No pain, no gain," she whispered,tracing the burn with her finger. "No pain, no gain."  
  
  
  
Ten days later, on her sixteenth birthday, Lena ventured out of the house before the Smithes had a chance to confront her with her birthday gifts (Lena, having caught Mrs. Smithe wrapping a suspicious film-shaped object the other day, decided she didn't want to exercise her butt, thank you very much). It was a clear, bright day, and when a bird suddenly swooped down from the sky before her, Lena jumped. Controlling her breathing, she walked on. Her mind was filled with thoughts about the goodness of pain, the worthlessness of toil. Lena understood that much.  
  
Within fifteen minutes, she had arrived at the centre green in the village. A vendor chanced a talk with her, but Lena glared. He quickly backed away and went off to find a new possible customer. People rushed about her, getting their shopping done. For what? Shopping was another thing she'd deemed almost useless. There were extreme cases, though, such as food and perhaps school clothes.   
  
Settling onto a bench, she listened to the catches of conversation that surrounded her.  
  
"Bought a new 'un, but it's broken too, it is — riffraff, you'd never believe..."  
  
"Never seen a place like that before, eh, Drew?"  
  
"Looks like a witch, I'd swear it 'fore a—"  
  
A witch? Now there was something to watch! Lena located the speaker, a short red-haired woman in her early thirties clutching a bag proclaiming, 'Royal Pines, Ltd - A Thrift Shop Near You!'".   
  
"Just look at her," the woman continued to her friend, a blonde, "That hat, that cloak! It's not a wonder why everyone's avoiding her."  
  
Lena looked in the direction the two gossipers were staring, and saw a woman about fifteen meters away, a broom tucked underneath her arm. She was wearing a great, pointed hat, like the ones stores parade about around the time of Halloween. Her cloak was black and plain. Lena blinked, and in that one moment when her eyes were closed, another weirdo appeared next to the witch-lady. He was also wearing a black cloak, although he had no hat and no broom. It was almost as though he had appeared out of nowhere.  
  
The duo moved into an alleyway, as if they did not want to be seen. Lena stood up and moved so that she was at an angle where she could see them, leaving the two gossiping women behind. This was too interesting to miss.   
  
They were talking in quick, excited whispers, with insane-looking grins on their faces. The woman pulled a black stick out of her pocket and did something with it, although, from so far away, Lena could not tell what. The man beside her laughed horribly.   
  
It was then that the villagers all around her started screaming. Before turning away to see what caused the commotion, Lena saw the grins grow on the witch-people's faces, mouths widening with glee and mirth. Excited mirth.   
  
The cause of the townspeople's' distress was easy to find. Not too far away, five cloaked figures were gliding in amongst them. At first Lena thought they might be more witches, perhaps clutching broomsticks, ravens, cauldrons, and who knew what else, but she immediately realised her mistake. These foul creatures were no humans!   
  
A wave a panic swept through her, and she felt the urge to scream also. Or run. But her feet seemed planted to the ground, as one of the figures drew nearer. Sorrow — from where? — cascaded over her, her worst nightmares, her fears, her desires turned wrong...  
  
Lena only wanted it to be over. No one could live through this. People were falling over all around her, kneeling, protesting, crying out. There was no more joy, no more happy shoppers' glee. Her mind was full of flashbacks, her worst memories: the hot toast pan, the time when she sprained her ankle and the Smithes just laughed, her 9th birthday (when she received bandages as a gift). The next scene she saw, flashing before her eyes, was one she couldn't recall at all: A woman, dressed in a greying robe, was hugging something, weeping. The woman shrieked and yelled something in another language to a stranger, standing before her, unnoticed until now. Not that the stranger cared.   
  
"You are worthless," he snapped, "I don't care. I have no use for you."  
  
But the woman shook her head and shouted something else. It was in English, but with such a thick accent, it was no better understood by Lena than if it had been in Latin.   
  
"You and your bastard daughter have eaten all my money," the man continued hatefully, "Nothing left for me! Nothing! Go find another fellow who cares, wench." He walked away, and the woman collapsed completely. Lena was morosely entranced. Where had she come by this memory? But it was too late, dark tendrils of fog were spiralling around the image, the memory was fading fast, leaving her...  
  
A sort of maniac laughter came from beside her, and again she saw the witch-woman. "How do you like it, Muggle?" she spat. "The Dark Lord will rule once again!" Sudden rumbling noises from all around overtook the sound of the woman's laughter. A small shop nearby cracked in two, its merchandise falling out and landing on the cobble road outside. Tinkering of broken china filled Lena's ears, along with more screams, wailing, cackling, and the sounds of building breaking apart for no apparent reason. The whole village sounded like it was falling apart.  
  
Lena's worst memories suddenly stopped playing in her mind, which began to clear instantly. She became distinctly aware she was in a kneeling position on the cobblestones, tears running down her cheeks, her throat feeling raw. Opening her eyes, she saw that all the black figures had disappeared, including the weird lady who was dressed as a witch. All that remained was the foundations of buildings around her, surrounded by avalanches of stone and mortar, and the groans of villagers, getting to their feet to survey the damage.

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Yes, I know, Muggles can't see dementors! 


End file.
